Vice City
by RonTheRonin
Summary: Fresh out of prison from serving 10 years for a crime he didn't commit; Dean Ambrose is determined to find the man who ruined his life. Getting through the clutches of the Miami crime underworld is easier said than done though, and Dean will have to endure hell on earth to claim his vengeance, because in Vice City, everybody pays for their sins and vices. Everybody.


**Hello all! This is a WWE AU written by myself and DiamondsLikeABoss90! Enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: We do not own any of the characters in WWE.**

 **Chapter 1**

 _Finally, at long fucking at last._

Dean Ambrose closed his eyes for a moment, relishing in the sweet sound of the metal bars of his cell creaking, as the guards opened it. Today, Dean Ambrose was finally going to be a free man again, after 10 long years in the slammer. _It's a shame it took them this long just to get me out of here._

A quick whistle from one of the guards alerted the now former inmate out of his thoughts, as he lazily leaned up from his bed. "Get your fucking ass up lunatic. You're unfortunately a free man now," Officer Owens stated with a flat voice. The look on his face was completely uninspired, making Dean grin just a bit more to himself. He'd made Owens' life quite irritating over the span of these last 10 years.

A shame that all of that fun seemed to be coming to an end now.

"Don't look so pitiful Owens. Maybe if you're lucky, I'll drop by here again and we can play some blackjack again," Dean sarcastically offered, chewing on a toothpick in his mouth. Owens let off a bit of a scowl, pushing the rest of the cell door all the way open.

"As long as that involves me punching you in the face and giving you black eyes jack, then sure," Owens grinned himself. "Besides you criminal scum, I'm transferring out of this stupid prison and over to the Miami Vice Police Squad. Before you know it, your ass will be right back in here where you belong," he flashed a selfish grin, Dean shaking his head with a chuckle.

"Never should have been in here in the first place. Congratulations though Owens! You're finally moving up in the world big boy!" Dean laughed, as he dusted himself off, exiting the hell. "Show me the way to my freedom boys," he pointed down the hall towards the exit of the prison.

"Fuck you," Owens scowled once more. As Owens and two other patrol guards walked Dean down the long hallway, Dean looked to his left and right, sighing to himself. So many lunches, so many punched and manufactured license plates, and one hell of a lot of fights and scraps. All the other convicts were reaching through the bars, shouting various obscenities and some waving goodbye to the former convict. Yup, prison was definitely gonna be one interesting chapter to close in this book of his life.

After being shoved into the processing room with a swift kick in the ass from Owens, Dean made his way over to the items desk. The secretary at the desk gave Dean a look, before digging through a bunch of file drawers. "Mr. Dean Ambrose, you entered prison with these items and have finished your sentence, so now you'll leave with these very same items you brought in. Two alcohol bottles, a pocketknife, a pack of playing cards, and a 6 pack of Marlboro cigarettes. Have a nice life," she said, pushing the items over to him and turning away.

"Now that's service," Dean remarked, scooping the items and placing them into his pockets. The two guards near the entrance opened up the door and allowed Dean to go outside, swiftly shutting it behind him.

Today, Dean Ambrose was finally a free man. And to top it off, he saw a familiar face waiting for him in the parking lot of the prison.

"Truth, my boy! Glad to see you man!" Dean making his way over to his old friend and fellow partner when going into "business." "You haven't aged a day man! Even over 10 years!" he remarked, and Truth flashed his signature, goofy grin. "You know how that old saying goes man, black don't fucking crack," he quipped, pulling out his lighter to light his cigarette and Dean's as well. "Man, we missed having you on the outside! Shit hasn't been the same since you did ten in the pen."

"I bet. I'm sure the cars and music have changed, but the good ol' underworld of Miami is as rotten as ever," Dean said, hopping into the passenger's seat of Truth's drop top 1983 black Porsche. His partner shook his head in confirmation. "Damn right. Shit's still messed up that you took the fall for assassinating the mayor when you didn't pull that shit," he chimed in.

"There wasn't shit that I could do. I was completely screwed over while my so called "partners" and "friends" got away cleanly on that job. Yeah, I didn't pull the trigger but I got busted and lost 10 years of my fucking prime Truth. 10 fucking years!" he exclaimed, as the vehicle zoomed down the open Miami freeway.

"And to make matters worse, that fucking weasel I used to call my brother, Seth motherfucking Rollins, had the nerve to testify against me in court in order to buy a plea deal! Are you fucking kidding me Truth?!" Dean yelled. The Florida heat was certainly starting to get to his head a bit.

"If you thought that was bad man, you should see Rollins now. Dude walked out of that situation without a scratch and now it's like he's the king of the Miami underworld man. Everything goes through him, and if any moves are made, he'll always know about it. He's **THE** Miami crime kingpin," Truth explained.

Dean could feel the blood in his body turn hot and start completely boiling as his face turned red. The nerve of that weasel...he'd gone from working as brothers and partners to selling him out to save his own ass...and now he'd risen to power in the 10 years he was locked away? Dean clenched the edges of the car, as he tried to keep himself in check, not that it helped much.

"Crime kingpin huh? Well how about I find the 'kingpin' and carve his heart out and shoot him in the head, huh? That should solve everyone's problems about having to answer to this traitorous asshole," Dean violently suggested, smugly smiling at the thought of potentially violating Seth Rollins in the worst way.

"Now you know it ain't gonna be that easy fam. We all is bad people," Truth mentioned, taking a puff of his smoke before continuing, "there ain't no saints in Miami."

"Yeah Ron, but that's the last thing I'd expect anybody to accuse me of being. Sainthood is for the fucking weak. I'm making it my mission to take down that squirrelly motherfucker once and for all, and so God help anybody who stands in my fucking way," he spat outside the car, clutching his fists with enraged and intense anger.

The loud thud echoed through out the oddly large bathroom as glass shattered hitting the ground while strains of blood followed. Any woman would have been startled by a complete stranger coming out of their shower—so it was natural—the young petite women held what was left of the beer bottle while the man fell unconscious.

This wasn't her place though, so maybe she was overreacting.

"Paige!" The woman ran out the bathroom almost sliding and busting her ass as her long burgundy flowed behind her. She entered her roommate's royal bed room gripping the sharp piece of bottle. "Paige there is a large man in your shower!"

Paige. Passed out on the floor her long dark hair muffling her face she groaned before barely moving and pushing herself to sit up. "Why are you yelling Sash?" Paige shook her hair out of her face and glanced over to her bed. "Oh, you met Wade."

"I'm fucking terrified!"

"Relax, he's harmless..." Paige stood to her feet completely topless—Sasha definitely wasn't surprised by her friends lack of modesty, but she sighed annoyed anyway.

"How long have you know him?"

"Twenty-four hours."

Sasha glared hard at Paige waiting for her say "lol jk" I've known him for a year. Then she remembered Paige never really was the one to keep one guy around for too long.

"Well he's probably dead, so you may want to get your maid to clean up the mess," Sasha said still shaken.

"She's your maid too, you know,"

Sasha nodded slightly before sitting on the edge of her friend's bed. It was nice of Paige to offer her home to her and given the opportunity to get the hell out of California—more specifically the drama she tangled herself in which she had means of returning to anytime soon. Sasha raised a brow once she noticed Paige disappeared? Her friend looked like a ghost, no doubt, but really where the fuck could she run off too so fast? Whatever—she would catch up with her eventually. The five story mansion was an easy to get lost in and surely Sasha didn't want to have to kill another one of Paige's boy toy's again. In the mean time; she decided it would be a great idea to go job searching. Using the house line phone, she called for one the chauffeurs to meet her in the driveway and as much as Paige told Sasha she could wait as long as she needed to start working; the thought of being a moocher made her skin crawl.

"Thanks William," The Sasha stepped out of the blue-black Escalade. Downtown Miami was loaded with plenty of restaurants and bars to pleasure the bored—minded or even the crazy. Not too different from L.A. though it was more cultural, more a live from what she experienced. Then again she did spend most of her time in the suburban area so maybe it wasn't exactly as it seemed.

Making her way across the street, albeit crazy traffic, she finally arrived to her destination, _The Mad Titus._ Known to be the best bar in downtown near the Miami beachfront, Sasha was itching to find the place and acquire a job there. Although she wasn't a bartender, she worked at her cousin's restaurant back in LA, so hopefully that'd be enough for her to land the job.

Approaching the counter, she spotted a bright red headed girl with long hair serving up drinks to a rather powerful looking Samoan way down the bartop counter. "Hi, I'm looking to apply for the open bartender position here?" she inquired, and the bartender nodded her head. "I'll go get the owner for ya," she said, the mildly thick Irish accent standing out in her tone. A few minutes later, the bartender came back with the owner.

The owner was a rather big figure, standing tall at around 6 foot 5 with dark skin. He had no hair but had a rather welcoming and friendly look on his face. Sasha could already tell that he had immediately begun inspecting her. This owner definitely had business acumen.

"Hey there," he said, outstretching his hand. "The name's Titus O'Neil, proud owner and manager of _The Mad Titus_ , the best beachfront bar on the planet. My employee Becky here told me you're looking to apply for a position to work here. Is that right?" he asked.

Sasha quickly nodded her head. "That's definitely what I'm here for," she nodded, giving an honest chuckle.

"Alright," Titus led Sasha just off the side to an empty table in a less crowded area, Sasha followed as Titus took a seat leaning back casually in his favorite lounge chair, lowering his mirror sunglasses to get the sun out of his view. "So tell me about yourself Sasha, what's your background?"

Sasha swiftly took a seat opposite from Titus, the sunbeams shining upon her forehead. Not exactly what she needed at this given moment. "I'm from California...I worked at this restaurant that my cousin owned for about 3 years, give or take," she informed the owner.

"So, you just up and left California just to come all the way out to South Beach?" Titus questioned, pressing at a distance. "Surely there was something behind making such a big decision for a young person like yourself."

"Yeah, I umm...just wanna make it on my own. Away from family and all that; I want them all out my hair while I strive to make a life for myself. I'm a boss. Built on self success," she complimented herself with a confident, if not cocky grin towards Titus, who nodded his head , a bit impressed.

"Young and cocky, I see. But I'm alright with that, because I was that same way at your age. Young, thick in the skull, and just ready to go out into the world and make that money. I wasn't gonna take no for answer, no matter how many times people would tell me no. So congrats Sasha, consider yourself hired. Let's see how you do," he commended her, offering out his hand.

No quicker than two seconds was Sasha up on her feet, immediately shaking his hand while profusely sweating. "Thank you, thank you! You can count on me!" she said, quickly letting go and pulling out her phone to text Paige the good news. Titus grinned, "you start Monday, and a package will be by later today at your residence with your uniform inside. See you in a couple days," he said, sliding out of his seat and heading to the back of his bar for a cold one.

As Sasha headed out of the beachfront bar, calling William Regal for a ride back to the place, she grinned to herself. Finally, she was on the path to making her own way in town. No family necessary.

"Damn Truth, what kinda digs are these? I was thinking you'd stuff me in an apartment that had cockroaches, broken water pipes, and some crack whore on the bed who'd suck you off for a cigarette or something. You going soft on me?" Dean claimed, carrying his two bags in and throwing them on the rather clean closet.

"I told you man, I saved my money up from my years in the game and I've moved onto something better. You my dawg, and you know I got your back no matter what, so I'm hooking you up with my old pad," Truth said, albeit a bit defensively.

Dean chuckled, throwing his hands up. "Relax dude, I'm messing with you! What the hell's the matter with you? I'm out the pen, so we can go back to like how things used to be! Blowing a bunch of smoke, hitting the hottest strip clubs in downtown Miami, and most importantly, gutting Seth Rollins like a fucking fish until I have his bleeding heart in my fucking hand," Dean said, taking out his pocketknife and carving into the wall. For Dean, the world was his canvas.

Truth was starting to become a bit worried for his friend. His hunger and craving to get revenge on Seth almost made him seem like he had become a man possessed by a hellish demon. While Seth did technically take 10 years off of Ambrose's life for something Seth himself did, would capturing revenge on the man who ruined his life make him feel whole? Would killing this evil bastard finally bring Dean the peace he so desperately needed?

 _The fuck if I know,_ Truth thought to himself.

"Alright come on Ron, you can tell me the truth. What the hell made you go straight? Tell me what's up," Dean inquired, guzzling down what was now his third bottle of alcohol. Tapping his feet fervently, the former inmate was dying to know.

"Because man," Truth paused, collecting his scrambled thoughts before resuming, "I'm a father now. About three years ago, I had twin girls that were born, ironically on the same day that you were born. We named them Trish and Monica, and they came into my life at a time when I didn't have my shit together man. My girlfriend and I are doing better now, and I can't afford to get back into the underworld, the game got switched for me."

With a slow clap, Dean stood up and opened up his arms for an embrace. When Truth came over to return the embrace, Dean clamped him up tight and whispered into his ear, "you are softer than fucking Cinemax porn man!" he yelled to finish his sentence.

"Man, one day you'll actually understand," Truth shrugged as Dean kicked his way around the apartment before glancing out at the Miami scene; it was time to stir up the trouble Dean itched for so long since being out of jail only for a whole three hours. "So tell me, Truth, since you've had your tabs on Seth all this time, where does the little prick spread his poison?"

"The best club in town, _305,"_ Truth sighed grabbing a beer from the kitchen, "right downtown and always packed."

"I thought you weren't into that stuff anymore."

"It's not exactly your traditional club," Truth attempted to explain the 411 to Dean, but the Lunatic had already dashed out the door.

It had never occurred to Paige how tedious a person could be until she stepped into 305. At least was nice for the most part, different—no sweaty obnoxious drug dealers drooling over her. She did get a kick out of how the fuckboy right next to her was telling her some story about how he was able to pull off some incredible heist downtown on one of the banks and how nobody saw it coming.

Paige was definitely the type of lady to live life moreso on the wild side rather than just talk about it, and as long as it wasn't her account or assets that he was hitting, she could give a shit less. Still, for a guy who loved to talk a lot, he had quite the fit body and suit, along with an odd hair choice. Who the hell would let that thin of a blonde strip run through their hair like that?

"But if you're interested in what I have to offer, please don't hesitate to give me a call. Here's my card. I'd like to get to know you in a much more...intimate setting," the guy said, sliding his card inside the bra of Paige while she was looking off into the distance.

"Yeah buddy sure thing. Now go whack yourself off in the back of the club before I-" Paige stopped mid-sentence when she turned around to discover that the guy wasn't even there anymore. "Where the hell did that guy go?" she asked aloud, shrugging to herself. Must have scared him off.

Swallowing her second glass of alcohol, she was quite surprised when the doors of _The 305_ opened up to reveal a curly and unruly haired man, backed by a dark skinned man in his 40s she recognized as Truth. The rather unstable looking character stormed towards the counter, grabbing the bartender and asking him repeated questions.

"I've already told you sir, we don't sell moonshine here! And for the love of God, I don't know who the hell Seth Rollins is!" the bartender yelled, struggling to get free of Dean's tremendous grip on him, but to no avail. Paige raised an eyebrow, covering her mouth with her hand to stifle a laugh. This guy was certifiably crazy.

"Look buddy, I don't like you at all, because you look like you smoke a lot of pot and used all your college money on coke instead of a good education. I don't trust a guy with a bar that doesn't sell moonshine either...so that must mean you keep the good stuff in the back." Dean began to climb over the counter, but Truth pulled him back into his seat. "Dawg, you just got out the fucking pen. The last thing you wanna do is make enemies fresh out the gate. Especially with the owner of this club."

"Yeah yeah, whatever man," Dean said, readjusting his black leather jacket and refocusing his mindset. "The fact that this club ain't got no moonshine is some ever lovin' bullshit Ron. But whatever, I guess a beer will suffice." His eyes however, traveled from his beer over to the young woman coming his way. With her dark hair, highlighted by a long midnight blue streak on the side, she took a seat next to Dean.

"Paige! What's up?!" Truth shouted out through Dean's ear. "What's up Truth!" Paige shouted back to him through Dean's other ear, making the unstable hitman snap. "How about both of you shut the hell up?! Quit using my ears like some godforsaken tunnel!" Dean snapped, a vein on the side of his head pounding repeatedly. His hands began to clench together as Paige offered up a classy laugh while sipping on her drink.

"Why so tense sweetheart? It's a classy club, you should be enjoying yourself," she suggested, leaning back in her chair. "Well unlike you _Paige_ , I'm a man on a fucking mission. I got shit to do and people to find. What the hell happened to Club Inferno? This ain't the same club I used to get down in 10 years ago," Dean remarked, still not impressed with the new venue. It was insane to him how much something could change over the course of a single decade.

"My incredibly dull father bought the property off of the owner and sold the deed to some other poor sap he grew up in Miami, and ta-da! You have _The 305,_ " Paige explained. "Yeah dawg, sorry. They took out all the clubs that were mainstays here in Miami and replaced it with other shit," Truth further apologized.

"Are you a former jailbird or something?" Paige asked, and Dean nodded his head, still trying to make sense of everything. He almost felt like he was Captain America, frozen for decades and reawakened to an unfamiliar time he didn't belong to.

He almost felt like a man out of time.

"Yeah darling, I'm a former jailbird. I did my time and earned my fucking stripes, and now I'm looking to collect them from the cocksucker who put me in there to begin with. Does the name Seth 'squeaky clean asshole' Rollins sound familiar to you?" he asked, with added explicit material.

"Afraid not," Paige let out a big laugh. "You're hilarious, a helluva lot more funnier than all these other bloody morons here. Let me give you my number," she offered, but Dean threw his hands up. "Just got out of jail babe. Don't got a phone," he said, with a bit of a half smile. Truth solved the problem in a quick manner by dropping a new phone into Dean's hand. "And...now I do," he grinned as Paige grabbed his new phone and input her digits.

As she gave back his phone, Dean noticed her black leather jacket and quirked his eyebrows, highly impressed by her fashion sense. "You know...I ain't necessarily the fashion police or any dumb shit like that, but I'm diggin' your black leather jacket," and Paige winked back at him. "Aww, look at you, being all sweet and shit. I'm 'digging' yours too," she offered a suggestive smile.

"Text me sometime Deano. I like my guys a little bit on the crazy side sometimes. Plus, I can tell you exactly where to get the best moonshine in Miami," she suggested, adjusting her jacket and leaning over to softly bite his right earlobe. "Bye pumpkin, bye Truth!" she called out, doing a bit of a skip out of the club.

After Paige left _The 305_ , Truth gave Dean a strange glance. "I don't know what kinda vibe you got going for yourself man, but that shit still works 10 years later," he chuckled to himself as Dean shrugged.

"What can I say? The ladies love Dean Ambrose," he grinned, pulling out a cigarette and getting ready to light it. A rather large hand grabbed the cigarette from Dean's hand and threw it to the ground, smothering and stomping the cancer stick until it was no more. Calm on the outside but pissed off internally, Dean immediately rose up out of his seat and pushed his forehead against that of his uninvited guest. "You got 10 seconds to explain who the fuck you are and why I shouldn't stab you to death right now," he threatened.

The man with the crooked nose and off kilter smile cracked his knuckles. "The name's Wade Barrett, and I don't appreciate you hitting on my girl like that. So it'll be my pleasure to kick your bloody arse all the way back to where you came from."

Chaos. Sasha threw back her second shot as the bar broke into a complete warzone. Nothing, but sweaty musky upset bodies battled against each other over the wrong _look;_ and more importantly the alcohol pumping into their veins possessed them into acting like wild animals ready for the kill. On cue, Sasha jumped over the bar landing on the wooden surface right between the two large men ready to brawl. One being an obscenely pale Irish man with a Mohawk shaped across his crown; he held a broken end of a beer bottle to the throat of the smaller intoxicated man. _Here goes._ Sasha grabbed the man's arm just before he swung at other guy. "Who the hell are you?" the man's breath was heavy from all the beer he consumed mixed with his clear accent, Sasha held her hand up.

"I've been serving you beer all night!"

"Well what the hell are you wading out the bar for? Go get me some more beer!"

"How about you sit the fuck down!?" Sasha snapped snatching the broken bottle from his grip. "I think you've had enough!" People around widened their eyes as if Sasha had done something forbidden—oh well for the night this was her bar. It was her job to keep things in order.

"I'll tell you when I think I've had enough and I haven't had enough, so how about you get me another round little girl!"

Sasha raised a brow cocking her head back at the nerve of the man. Politely, she decided, as she heading to the back of the bar a grabbed a large chilled bucket of ice—the man turned around with huge grin across his face. "That's right give daddy the good stuff."

Sasha smiled untwisted from his words before taking the bucket of ice and dumping it onto his head. Pure shock embodied his face as his pale skin glazed over, his eyes darted with anger towards her.

"You stupid little bitch, you're fucking with the wrong guy," he threatened, clenching his fists as he stood up out of his seat, ready to make the young bartender pay for her transgressions she'd just committed. "I'm gonna take my time with you, go nice and slow. I'm gonna have you screaming for mercy," he carried on his threat as Sasha held her ground.

"You don't fucking scare me," she responded, standing tall. Not a single person budged around them. It was strange, yet suspected. Obviously people didn't want to mess with this guy for a reason and with Sasha being new to the area—she was probably about to do something insanely stupid. That, or others around were completely oblivious.

Good thing the bucket of ice was a distraction. Sasha took the spare moment to launch the bucket at the man's thick skull. Lucky for her that and the alcohol was enough to take him off his feet, people clearing the way as his large body hit the ground hard.

It was probably luck, really.

"We're closed!" Sasha yelled startling the heavy crowd; which quickly scattered—tripping over each other until the venue was completely empty. Finally, at last, with an empty venue, Sasha could relax and finish up the rest of her chores and go home.

Much to her dismay, one person remained at an empty table, sipping on a beer as he chuckled to himself watching a video on his phone. "Hey, did you not hear me shouting before? We're closed, so that means leave!" Sasha exclaimed, tapping her foot impatiently.

The guy waved her off, not acknowledging her demands and instead decided to pay more attention to his phone. "Stupid ass motherfucker," Sasha murmured under her breath. She marched over to the man's table, snatching his phone from his grasp, and hurled it into the distance. "We're closed. Leave. Now!" Sasha continuously spat words at him.

Taking a deep sigh, the man stood up and out of his chair, leaning towards Sasha's direction and towering over her. Unlike the Irishman before, this guy actually made Sasha nervous just a bit. He wore shades with a red and gold tanktop, and his right arm was completely decked out with what looked like some sort of tribal tattoos, possibly Samoan if she had to guess. The jean shorts looked pretty well on him too as did the beachfront sandals.

"You didn't have to chuck my phone like that. Those don't exactly grow on trees," he nonchalantly spoke to her. He reached into his back pocket, pulling out another Android phone and almost flashing a smile at her, but Sasha didn't see it that way. She reached for his second phone, but the imposing figure popped her hand away like a bad child reaching for the cookie jar. "Calm your happy grabbing ass down. First day on the job and you act like you're the damn manager," he ridiculed her.

"And who the fuck are you?" Sasha sassed back rolling her eyes, "would it really matter? I'm the one closing the bar tonight, so therefore I am the manager."

"You are obviously not from here," the man said glaring at her, "did it ever occur to you that there's a reason why I'm still here."

"Did it ever occur to you that I don't give a fuck?"

"You would if you know I'm the one who helped Titus open this bar in the first place," he crossed his arms, watching Sasha's face go from a scowl to a look of disbelief and delayed anger. "So maybe you should give a fuck."

"I don't give a fuck if you're the mayor of Miami! We're closed, so you need to leave now!" she shouted, and in an act of bravado, stepped up to the man, staring him up straight in the face, feigning like she posed a physical threat to him.

"Scowl faced and hot headed, I like that," he offered a half smile, and his own version of what a compliment seemed like. He downed the rest of his drink, tossing the empty glass right into Sasha's open hands. "See you around Banks," he said, not even needing to read her name-tag.

Rolling her eyes, Sasha pulled off her work top revealing a sapphire blue tanktop underneath. Finally she could get back to Paige's place and get the night behind her. She grabbed her phone from underneath the bar cursing as the light went dim and the phone shut off.

"Seriously!?" Sasha sighed stepping out the back door and locking it. Now all that luck she was flashing around earlier had disappeared.

"Phone trouble?" There was the sardonic tone again lingering in her ear, "damn, I thought you were on top of everything?"

"You're. Still. Here." Sasha pursed her lips glaring at the same guy in his stupid Porsche Spider. _Bye._

"I thought I'd stick around just in case you made a typical rookie mistake. _"_

"You are _really_ annoying."

"You're so fine when you're honest," he winked at her insult, "let me do you a favor Banks."

"Don't call me that." Sasha said rolling her eyes. What was this fool trying to do? "And now you're starting to act like a pervert."

"Look, I'm just trying to help you out..." he stopped waiting for her name to drop, but she never gave it to him. "Well since you don't wanna give me your first name, I guess I'll just have to leave you here, all by yourself in this dark parking lot...at 3 in the morning, where all kinds of people are crawling around, waiting to grab your va-"

"Shut your cutting ass up already, god damn! I fucking get it, just give me a ride home already in your stupid car so I don't have to see your ugly mug anymore," she popped off with a bunch of attitude. It was late as hell and there was no way she had the energy nor the tolerance to deal with his wisecracks.

"Finally, about time you swallowed your fucking pride," Roman made a snarky comment, earning the "evil eyes" from his newfound riding partner.

"I bet you swallow all kinds of stuff," Sasha retorted, opening the car door and quickly sliding in. _Enough of this fucking conversation._

"Oh, you'd know all about swallowing, wouldn't you? Girl got her degree and everything," he let out an audible chuckle, Sasha rolling her eyes at him.

"You're so fucking ridiculous," she commented, as he turned the keys in the car to ignite the engine, roaring the vehicle to life.

As he turned his Porsche onto the highway, he turned his radio on to one of his pre-programmed stations, _Flash 98.5,_ the go-to station for all of his 80s pop music needs. He also smashed a button underneath the radio station, allowing for the Porsche to drop back its top so that they could feel the nighttime air.

"Alright, where do you live at?" Roman inquired, relaxing to his tunes and enjoying the empty road, free of traffic. "Banks, where do you live?" he asked again, and arched his eyebrow at his passenger.

Sasha was knocked the fuck out, head leaned back in the seat and couldn't hear a damn thing.

 **I hope you guys enjoyed! We are having a blast writing something fresh and original for your eyes! Let us know what you think!**

 **-Diamond & Ronin**


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